Fractions
by nightpheonix
Summary: Once again, Rodney is left to save the day, but maybe he’s sick of being the hero. Written for the halfway mark until season 3!
1. Halfway There

A/N: Well, two days late and a dollar short, but Saturday was the official halfway mark to Season 3! Only 60 MORE DAYS (We're practically almost there…)! I decided to recognize this momentous occasion with a silly little fic. I have the rest mostly written out, so there can be no stories not completed this time! I expect it to be in three parts, maybe four if my muse moves me. Have fun!

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**Fractions

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_**Part One:**_

Halfway there.

Okay. This wasn't so bad. If he could get through the first half, he could get through the second half. The end was practically in sight. It wasn't more than a mile to the gate. Sure, it was drizzling and damp and cold and miserable and the path he was jogging was muddy and he was alone and his radio had been smashed and his three team members were all either captured or avoiding recapture in the village behind him and his backpack straps were soaking wet and rubbing coarsely against his jacket, causing it to rumple uncomfortably, but he was halfway there and that's what mattered.

Did he say a mile to the gate? It couldn't even be that far. Three-fourths of a mile at the most. Maybe even two-thirds. That wasn't bad at all. He had to walk two-thirds of a mile to perform routine diagnostics on the naquadah generators every few weeks. Two-thirds was nothing. He could be back in Atlantis in less than ten minutes if he really tried.

Hmm…he was getting optimistic. Now he knew he was screwed.

He noted that he was becoming a little too optimistic for his own good these days. The few months he'd spent on Atlantis had already gotten into his head. The team had barely made it through so many sticky situations by the skin of their teeth…pardon the mixed metaphor…that he was beginning to get a little too comfortable with eleventh-hour rescues for his own good. He really should stop hanging around with Major Sheppard and this gang—they were a bad influence. He couldn't become too confident that they would always get through, because one of these days they _weren't_ going to make it through. He was just surprised they hadn't already.

Although by the looks of it, this mission could be the first where they didn't in fact make it out. Per usual, things had started off peacefully. AT-1, on a mission to find the illusive willing trading partner, took the jumper and parked it in a field about a hundred yards outside the village in order to not frighten the natives, a simple farming community. After spending no longer than thirty minutes talking with the village council, a group of people burst in, claiming to have seen the team arrive through the gate in a Wraith vessel. Sheppard had begun to explain that their ship was not, in fact, Wraith, but Atlantean, and they were peaceful traders. But mob mentality took precedent, and one thing led to another, and they were promptly thrown in prison for being liaisons to the Wraith. Escape from the cell had been no problem; crime was so seldom in the town that the prison had fallen into decay and it only took Ford and Sheppard a few well-placed kicks to knock out the rotting wood boards.

Escape from the town turned out to be a different story. The team managed to retrieve their guns, but not their packs and spare ammo. They'd figured this wouldn't be a problem; no one would notice their escape, and they wouldn't have to use the weapons at all. Simple enough concept, right? Of course not. They had barely left the prison in the middle of the encampment when someone alerted the rest of the town to their presence. For a short while, just firing their guns into the air and pointing them threateningly had been enough to keep the villagers away. But they became braver, and the team soon discovered that these simple farmers were rather adept at using simple farming tools as blunt weapons. Teyla had probably received a minor concussion from being hit upside the skull with some sort of hoe, and Sheppard got several rather nasty and tetanus-prone cuts from a rusty, scythe-like object. When it became clear that things had pretty much gone to hell in a handbasket, Sheppard had decided to send someone ahead to get the jumper. And seeing as he was the only other one with the ATA gene, he was the obvious choice. The other three provided enough cover fire and distractions, while he made a rather spectacular series of dives into bushes and under handcarts. Fortunately, pretty much the entire population was focused on the other three, so once he reached the edge of the town, it was a clear run to the jumper.

He had no earthly idea why he'd been the one to make the run for it. It seemed more like a Major Sheppard deal to him. He wasn't quite…_adept_ at flying the jumper just yet, and Sheppard would freak if he damaged it in any way. But the major's crazy overprotective streak was probably kicking in again--God forbid the man leave the rest of the team to fight on their own.

In any case, the jumper plan backfired in their faces. It had just started to rain when he had left the village, so he high-tailed it to the ship in just a few minutes. It seemed like the whole rescue mission could be over and done with inside of twenty minutes. But when he tried to lift off, the jumper's consoles glowed momentarily, and then went dead. At first he though maybe it was just the fact that his ATA gene was not quite as fancy as Major Sheppard's, but the grinding noise and faint smell of smoke soon made it clear that his flying skills weren't the problem. When he went outside for a cursory inspection, he realized the villagers had gotten to the jumper first. Apparently, farming tools could be put to use on the jumper's drive pods as well. It wouldn't have been incredibly hard to fix; after all the work on the control pathways when they were stuck in the stargate, he had a fairly complex knowledge of the ship's systems. But apparently the sounds of his attempts to take off had roused the locals, and a contingent of rather angry looking men came crashing through the field. He'd had just enough time to grab his spare backpack and bolt to avoid being caught. And so, he continued on to plan B: walk to the gate.

So here he was: halfway (probably closer to two thirds now) to the gate, and quite miserable. He felt like a drowned water rat, and probably didn't look much better than one either. Pretty much the only thing keeping him from sitting down on the nearest patch of dryness (or at least the patch of land that was the least soggy) was the fact that his team's lives were at stake. When he left, Sheppard and Ford were already back in enemy hands, and Teyla was probably not too far behind them. That had been about half an hour ago. He hadn't stuck around to find out what was going to happen to them once they were dealt with, but he had an inkling that the concept if "innocent until proven guilty" didn't apply there. No matter how badly he wanted to allow himself to be captured simply in order to get inside and out of this cursed rain (which, all things considered, he wanted pretty badly), he couldn't. Once again, it was up to Dr. Rodney McKay to save the damned day for everyone else. They owed him so much for this.

Still, the second half was always better than the first…

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Hopefully the second part will be better too! REVIEW! 


	2. So Close, And Yet, So Far

_**Part Two:**_

_There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold,  
And she's buying a stairway to heaven,_

Ah, "Stairway to Heaven." The song made him hearken back to the good ol' days, where the group of stoners still stuck in the 1970s that lived in the college dorm next to his blasted it so many times that he'd learned almost all of the words without ever willfully listening to it. Never a Led Zeppelin fan himself in the least, but it was the longest song he could think of that would last the rest of the trek.

_And when she…something or else, and I for-ge-eet the lyrics,  
Hmm-hmmm da-da-da stairway to heaven,_

Well, he'd learned some of the words anyways.

After a few more botched verses, he just decided to hum the piano parts to Bach's "Fugue in G Minor." Why he hadn't just settled on that in the first place was a mystery. But there was just something about singing a song to get your mind off a task that humming a song just couldn't do.

Not like the singing was helping any. Despite being in better physical shape than he had been when he'd arrived in Atlantis, he was not quite ready to run a marathon. People kept telling him about this "runner's high" thing; you feel absolutely miserable running, until you cross some sort of barrier, and then suddenly you're on top of the world. Well, that was all lies. There was no barrier for him, or if there was then he simply slammed into it instead of crossing it. Carson was always talking about how your body produces endorphins during strenuous exercise that serve as natural pain killers or something, but that was a lie as well. Endorphins could just go screw themselves. Who was going to trust all that medical voodoo anyways? No amount of facts could ever make him not feel like dying while running.

He grudgingly admitted to himself that it wasn't necessarily the _running_ that made him feel like he was dying; it was the principle of the thing. Running away from something had a lot more merit than running in circles for entertainment. Seriously, who thinks that's fun? Running was more tolerable when it had purpose. But just because it had purpose didn't mean he was any happier with it, or any better at it. Especially when it was running in rain like this. It was that evil kind of rain that isn't heavy enough to be full-fledged pouring, but light enough so that the wind was blowing it in all sorts of crazy directions so no matter if you have a raincoat or umbrella you got positively soaked.

And dammit, that had to be the fifth puddle he'd stepped in during the last ten minutes! Now his socks were going to get wet and his boots would make that uncomfortable squishing feeling every time he took a step. He briefly considered stopping to see if he could dump any water out of his shoes, but decided against it. It would be a delay he couldn't afford, and he would just get himself more wet if he stood still in this rain. So he slogged onward.

And here the rumor mill had been saying that he loved playing the hero. Oh, they could not be more wrong. First off, they shouldn't use Kavanaugh as their gossip informant; if everything Kavanaugh said was true, he was also sleeping with Weir and half the science department (and not necessarily the female half). But secondly, and more importantly, these people seemed to have a highly glorified view of heroism; everything was all clean and confident and successful with trumpet fanfares sounding in the background or something. Well, it wasn't. This was frigging heroism right here. Muddy and wet and miserable and feeling like just passing out on the spot. People wondered why he was so cranky coming back from missions. The next person to accuse him of being melodramatic to get sympathy would be spending a rather interesting week stranded offworld with cranky locals who were convinced their team was bringing the Apocalypse with them to see how _they_ liked it.

This was the absolute last time he was sticking his neck out like this for the others. True, he'd said that the last several times as well, but he was actually being serious now. By the time this mission was over, he would expect no less repayment than their _souls_. Or just a warm, dry towel. Hmph, here was more evidence proving that he was spending too much time around Sheppard: he was actually caring that his griping wasn't getting him any closer to the gate. Fortunately, this habit was easily overridden, and he continued mentally whining, which, incidentally, made the time pass faster than singing did.

When the gate finally came into sight, he let out a cheer, which actually came out sounding more like a combination between a cough and a grunt. Whatever. He was practically there now, and that's the only thing that mattered. Unfortunately, contrary to the common dramatic stereotype, this sight did not give him a second wind or make him abandon all exhaustion to go sprinting towards relief, he just continued at the same plodding jog, dragging his leaden feet. The common dramatic stereotype of the gate looking farther away with each step he took did in fact seem to apply. He ended up just staring at the soggy ground so it would seem like he was going faster than he really was. He had no idea how long it took for him to get to the gate, all concept of time had been lost long ago. But the end was finally—mercifully-- in sight.

Fate, however, seemed to have a different idea, dogging his steps and set on making this rescue as difficult as possible. Ten feet away from the DHD, his left foot slipped out from under him. He stumbled forward, attempting to regain balance, but ultimately failing and falling forward on his hands and knees in the mud.

Immediately, he made a rather uncoordinated scramble into a standing position. He stood in stunned shock for a second, staring down at his handprints in the mud, then down at his filthy pants and boots. His mind stalled until he came to the rather inevitable (and obvious) conclusion: this was hell.

Y'know what? Screw it. Screw heroics, bravery, and rescue; screw having to save the day _every single time_. Not even his ego would contradict him on this point. He was tired of saving the day, tired of the rain, tired of running, just plain _tired_. He would positively _kill_ Sheppard the second the man got his stubborn and troublesome assout of trouble.

_Nyah, Rodney, go back to the jumper! Oh, it's only a few hundred yards, you just have to make a dash for it, swoop in, and pick us up, it's a piece of cake. Just go, we'll be fine_, he felt like mimicking, but realized there was really no one to mimic to. He settled on letting out a frustrated yell to the skies and whichever god was mocking him today. He then stomped over to the DHD, splashing mud everywhere in his wake.

No sooner had he pressed the first symbol when a distant _twang_ rang out and some sort of projectile whizzed past his shoulder.

Just when he though he couldn't get in any deeper, someone threw down a shovel.

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A/N: Muahaha! Don't worry everyone, I've got the next part all planned out and mostly written, so you won't have to wait too long. REVIEW! 


	3. Fraction Of A Second

**_Part 3:_**

He yelped loudly and indignantly as he scrambled behind the DHD and crouched down. This was the absolute last thing he needed right about now. Being shot at by unseen assailants who seemed intent on making sure he didn't leave the planet was just the cherry on the freaking sundae. He should have expected this, the villagers would obviously have noticed he'd escaped, and would undoubtedly have sent someone to guard the gate. Oh, _hell_, this was bad. He peeked up over the DHD to locate the hidden marksmen, and was promptly answered with another arrow lodging itself in the mud a foot to his right. Ducking back down, he attempted to draw himself even further behind the inadequate cover of the DHD.

At this point, he began to hyperventilate. He was trapped by a group of archers whose sole goal was to capture him and taken back to the village where God-knows-what would happen to him.

"Alright, McKay, focus," he muttered to himself in vain. There was no way he was going to focus now, it was just impossible. His thoughts began to race, going through all the possible outcomes of the situation. That was the problem with having such a brilliant mind in the field, it didn't much lend itself to thinking under duress when your imagination kept wandering back to all the ways you could die.

Another arrow whistled past, sticking itself into the earth at a sharp angle. It landed so near that he was actually splattered by mud when it impacted with the ground. He realized that these shots were far too precise to be inaccurate; these archers were aiming to miss. He was exposed enough that he would already have been shot if they wanted. No, these men were just trying to keep him where he was, they didn't want him dead, at least not yet, they wanted to recapture him and take him back to the village for whatever purpose they needed him for. He and they would remain in stalemate until one of them made a decisive move.

"Well, no time like the present," he muttered, unholstering his 9 mm at an awkward angle to hide it from view. After a second or two of scrutiny, he stuck his arm out and shot five rounds blindly into the area he believed the arrows had been coming from. Without waiting to see what happened, he scampered around the DHD, trying desperately to dial Atlantis' gate address. He managed to push two symbols before two arrows whizzed past his right side, a little too close for comfort. Apparently his assailants were getting impatient. He spent no further time on his current endeavor, and dove back to relative safety under the DHD.

Crap. That plan was a massive waste of time and ammunition. He had no idea how many bullets he had left, but it likely wasn't enough to pull that stunt many more times. And apparently, in sticking with the extended chess metaphor, they were about to put him into check. In the distance, he could hear another set of voices coming from the opposite side of his current assailants, maybe fifty yards away. They were going to attack from either side, so there was no way he could escape or hide. That would essentially be the endgame for him and the other three. Atlantis wouldn't send anyone after them until they missed their next check-in, which wasn't for another ten hours or so, and who knows what could happen between now and then. No, if he was going to act, he'd better pull some sort of amazing scheme out of his ass right now.

Nothing like a little pressure to stimulate the mind.

Alright, start by listing all of his advantage. Well, for starters, they had bows and arrows, whereas he had a gun. Granted, arrows could be just as deadly as a bullet, and firing guns usually required having a good aim…so there went that advantage.

Actually, now that he thought about it, that was the only advantage.

He was so screwed.

Well, at least the worst that could happen was to be recaptured and brought back to the village. They didn't want him dead, they wanted…well, he didn't quite know what they wanted him for, but whatever it was, they didn't want to kill him. He would have been dead a while back if that had been the case. If he was captured, he was sure the four of them could stall their captors until Atlantis sent back-up…ten hours from now…

He was _beyond_ screwed.

He began to shrug off his pack while still trying to remain completely behind the cover of the DHD, which ended up becoming quite a feat. He finally managed to get it off several seconds later. With one hand, he began rummaging around, hoping desperately to find anything remotely useful…

Powerbar wrapper, extra pair of socks, pocket knife, powerbar wrapper, MRE, life signs detector, flashlight with the broken bulb he had been meaning to replace for over a month now, mirror, sunscreen, medkit, empty water bottle…how was it he could fit all the useless junk in the entire city in his backpack, but could never manage to stick in a spare radio or an extra clip of ammo? Maybe he should actually listen to Sheppard sometime in the future and come _prepared_ to a mission. Then again, maybe Sheppard should mind his own business and stop being _unprepared_ so he didn't have to go on another ill-fated rescue mission like this ever again.

He pulled out the life signs detector. If he was going to escape, he might as well know how many people he was up against. The device began beeping, showing three dots to his left. The other group approaching from his right side was still far enough away that they hadn't shown up on the screen yet, but judging from how their sounds were much closer now, they wouldn't be off the screen for long.

_Christ_, he was screwed.

Once again, that little nagging part of him began to speak up, telling him that if he was screwed, stop complaining and _do_ something! Only problem was, it was a bit difficult to hear the voice over his hyperventilating. Besides, that voice was beginning to sound increasingly like one Major John Sheppard, and he certainly didn't want to listen to it if that was the case. It would probably get him killed. Either that or it would pull off some amazingly brilliant yet simultaneously stupid stunt that ended up saving the day.

A distraction. That was it, that was all he needed, a distraction long enough to get to the DHD and enter the rest of the symbols. Four more buttons, couldn't take more than a few seconds, right? He figured he'd just take his chances with the same shoot-and-run strategy, because things were getting a little too close for comfort and he didn't really have the time to come up with something better. Tensing himself for the mad dash to the other side of the DHD, he pointed the gun in the same general area and pulled the trigger.

_Click._

His facial expression morphed into a strange sort of panicked scowl. He's forgotten to check the magazine. Again. Dirty Harry made running out of bullets look so much cooler; whenever it happened to him, it was just inconvenient and rather pathetic-looking.

Wasn't this situation just getting better and better? He wondered vaguely if things could get any worse: trapped, without ammo, taking fire…

Hold on. Fire…

The Athosian lighter! He had one of those Athosian lighter-thingies Teyla had given him! He plunged his arm deep into the gritty depths of his pack and frantically groped around, finally coming up with the short, cylindrical object a few seconds later. Finally something useful. More importantly, finally an idea.

He opened the field medkit and took out a plastic bottle of rubbing alcohol, some gauze, a roll of adhesive medical tape, and a four-inch glass bottle of some sort of medication, he didn't look at what it was. He knew Carson would probably give him hell if he ever found out that medical supplies were being used for such a purpose, but it wasn't like McKay had much of a choice.

He dumped out the contents of the glass bottle on the ground and refilled it halfway with the alcohol. Working rapidly, he used the remainder of the alcohol to drench the gauze. He stuffed the opening first with wad of medical tape as a seal, then with the soaked gauze. A makeshift Molotov cocktail. Wouldn't cause lasting damage or burn for very long, but it would work long enough to finish dialing Atlantis.

With one final peek out from his hiding spot, he used the lighter to ignite the gauze, which went up instantaneously. Before he himself could get burned, he whipped it at his attackers, hoping that it hit the ground and broke somewhere near them. Without waiting to see where it landed, he leaped out from his hiding spot and pounded the buttons of the DHD as if his life depended on it. Because, y'know, it kind of did. He vaguely heard a yell from the archers, but he couldn't tell what they were saying. As long as they weren't shooting, he didn't give a damn _what_ they were doing. Apparently his little incendiary device served its purpose, because they didn't start to fire arrows at him again until he was already back behind the DHD and the wormhole splashed to life. It was pretty much the most amazing _ka-woosh_ he'd ever seen.

McKay punched in his IDC and waited five seconds for Atlantis to take down the shield. Then he waited another five seconds as he made a couple false starts to the gate. Finally, he told himself he was acting stupid, gritted his teeth, and ran like hell to the wormhole.

In many ways, that mission a couple of months ago where he had gotten hit by a Wraith blast coming through the open wormhole had been a blessing in disguise. Well, not in many ways. But since then, it had become an instinct to step to the side as soon as he arrived in Atlantis. Finally, that strategy paid off. Mere seconds after the gateroom swam into view, an arrow flew in behind him, missing him by scant inches. _Inches_. It clattered to the floor. He stared at for an instant, his mind having trouble grasping the fact that the arrow would probably have gone straight through his shoulder.

He shook his head and yelled to the control room, "Shut it down!"

Even as the technician put up the shield and the wormhole disengaged, Dr. Weir said over the intercom, "Rodney, where are Major Sheppard, Lieutenant Ford and Teyla?" Although she kept her voice even, you could barely hear the apprehensive strain in it.

"It's a long story with very little time to explain it all," he snapped, striding across the gateroom, leaving a trail of muddy footprints and drips of water as he walked. "We need a jumper, and preferably a better pilot than me to fly it. And at least four other well-armed people. And tell someone to go to my lab and get the laptop sitting on the top of the shelves by the door."

He suddenly realized that the team had been expecting the cavalry forty-five minutes ago. "And tell everyone to be ready as fast as is humanly possible! 'Lizbeth, meet me up in the jumper bay, I'll give you the Cliffs Notes version of the mission there."

As he moodily stormed his way up to the jumper bay, he wondered briefly how the hell he'd managed to get through that ordeal. And he also wondered when the hell he'd become more concerned about saving his team than about saving his own ass. After what he'd just gone through, they'd better appreciate this new selfless streak. Although, he supposed that after being in enemy hands for forty-five minutes, they probably would appreciate pretty much anything.

This had better work.

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A/N: Okay, people, you get your wish. One more part! 


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